the thing about ties
by The Star Room
Summary: When Ultron infects Clint and Natasha with visions of their past, Natasha is forced to confront her feelings about the man lying next to her - and the danger she has put him in.


My leg is still bleeding when we crawl into bed. I don't bother with it – the scrape doesn't go deep – and I'm preoccupied with the feel of the linen, the feel of a _bed_. I let the sheets skim under my fingers and I rest my head in the crook of his shoulder.

He is so warm. His skin is always warm, always soft despite its bruises and bandages. I've felt the bodies of many men in my life; most calloused, cool, maybe even cologned. But Clint is just _warm_. He smells of old smells, like kitchens and coffee and sawdust and soap. I hate this about him. It makes me want to stay.

He does not try to pull me too close, hold me too firm. He doesn't fall into waxing poetic – he doesn't blink at me softly and tell me I'm oh, _so_ beautiful. He knows that isn't what I want to hear. Instead, he keeps one hand at the curve of my hip, makes sure I'm not shaking, makes sure I'm not chilled. He _feels_ me, and that is enough. His deep breaths are against my ear and I know they will soon turn to snores and I hate this, because it feels like home.

I do not melt around Clint. I am not a melting girl. My resolve does not crumble, I do not become a stuttering housewife in awe of my husband. I criticize Clint, I challenge him; I think in many ways I hate him, as he hates me. We are partners in ways few can understand, partners in crime and heroics, partners in disguise and daylight, we have been together and we have been separate for years at a time. We have been friends, enemies, lovers. We have been everything in-between. You cannot be with someone for this long without hating them - hating the way they wash their clothes and comb their hair, the way they make coffee without any creamer, the way they fold laundry and hold guns and clean wounds, the way they grin and sprint, cough and kiss, and even how they cry, because yes, you've seen them cry. Not hard, no, but – enough. We've been through enough.

It would be so much easier if I could melt around this man. If I could dote on him, if I could gasp when he touches me, maybe I could leave. Infatuation only holds its grips for so long. I could melt around Bucky, because Bucky was my escape. As strong as he was, as handsome and kind and tragically beautiful, he was temporary. I can handle temporary.

But when this man touches me, I am invigorated. I am impassioned and furious. I am _frustrated_ by Clint. How could anyone not be? His quirks are his faults and his faults are his endearments. He gives up too easily, he showers too rarely, he keeps his arrows in a stack by the doorway. He likes Swiss, not gouda. He pronounces Russian words wrong ("dobryj," not "dahbree"). His hair gets too long; it falls into his eyes. He smiles like a child.

Even tonight, he smiles like a child. Even after the world has proved itself evil, after we've watched Tony become a husk, Bruce become a machine, Steve become a clown chasing a lost cause … Clint still smiles at me when I turn to meet his gaze. It is a short smile; it is fearful, it is cynical. But it is there.

And this is Clint's magic. This is his hold on me. Even after this morning, even after we watched a robot turn a building to ash, even after Tony created terrorism and named it Ultron, even after Bobbi turned HYDRA and HYDRA turned SHIELD, he … he smiles.

He smiled the first time he saw me dance. I won't forget that. Never.

It is midnight now, and his chest is falling and rising against my side. Fingernails trace along my hipbone. He talks in his sleep. Just groggy murmurs, incoherent phrases. I want to throw him aside, to push him away from my body, because now I fear we are attached, that I am now tied to a human and I will only drag him down where I go.

But the thing about ties … they go both ways. They pull. If I go down, so does he. But if he goes up … So do I.

I do not melt. I tie. I spin – I spin hardened steel strings of silk. There is no getting out of this web. We are trapped, perhaps forever.

So why, when I roll over and look at him, when I feel his warm body against my cold skin … Why am I no longer afraid?


End file.
